The Agreement

The kiss lasted forever.

Or maybe it lasted only seconds. I lost all sense of time the moment his mouth claimed mine. His hands moved from the wall to my waist, gripping me like he was afraid I would disappear. I fisted his shirt, pulling him closer, and he made a sound—low, rough, a growl that vibrated through my entire body.

Then, just as suddenly as it started, he pulled back.

We were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against mine, his golden eyes still blazing.

"Clara," he whispered. Not a question. Not a demand. Just my name, like a prayer.

I didn't speak. I couldn't.

He stepped back. The loss of his heat was immediate, cruel.

"This changes nothing," he said, his voice hoarse. "You're still my assistant. We still have a job to do."

"Of course."

"And we can't—" He ran a hand through his hair, messing it further. "We can't do that again. Not here. Not at work."

I nodded, even though every cell in my body screamed otherwise.

"But you asked," he continued, almost to himself. "You asked me to kiss you. That means something."

"It means I wanted to."

He looked at me then—really looked. The gold faded from his eyes, replaced by something softer. Vulnerable.

"I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "I don't know how to want someone without destroying them."

"You haven't destroyed me yet."

"No. But there's still time."

He turned and walked back into his office, leaving me alone in the hallway.

I stood there for a long moment, my lips still tingling, my heart still racing.

Then I smoothed my skirt, walked back to my desk, and sat down like nothing had happened.

---

The next week was torture.

Alistair and I fell into a strange rhythm. During work hours, he was all business—cold, distant, professional. He gave me tasks. I completed them. He didn't mention the kiss, the cabin, or the word "mate."

But at night, after everyone else had gone home, something shifted.

It started on Tuesday. I was working late, catching up on emails, when his office door opened.

"You're still here," he said. Not accusing. Almost... pleased.

"Paperwork."

He walked to the window and stared at the city lights. "I used to stay late every night. The building is quiet after eight. No one bothers me."

"I can leave if I'm bothering you."

"No." He turned. "Don't."

So I stayed. And we worked in silence, side by side, for two more hours.

On Wednesday, he brought me coffee. Black, no sugar—the way he drank it. I hated black coffee, but I drank it anyway because he had made it for me.

On Thursday, he walked me to the elevator at the end of the day. He didn't say goodbye. He just stood there, watching, until the doors closed.

On Friday, I found a note on my desk.

"Dinner. My penthouse. Tomorrow night. 8 PM. Don't be late."

No please. No question mark. Just an order.

I should have said no. I should have remembered what Lydia said about the last woman he loved.

Instead, I wrote back: "I'll bring wine."

---

Saturday night, I stood outside Alistair's penthouse door with a bottle of red wine in one hand and a stomach full of nerves.

The building was in Manhattan, on a street I'd only ever seen in movies. A doorman had escorted me to a private elevator that required a fingerprint scan. The ride to the top floor had taken thirty seconds, but it felt like thirty years.

I knocked.

The door opened.

Alistair stood there in dark jeans and a white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. No tie. No jacket. He looked almost human.

"You came."

"You invited me."

He stepped aside, and I walked in.

The penthouse was stunning—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a fireplace that crackled even though it wasn't cold, and furniture that probably cost more than my entire apartment building. But what caught my attention was the wall of books.

"You read," I said, surprised.

"Does that shock you?"

"I pictured you as more of a... business reports only kind of man."

He almost smiled. "I have layers, Clara."

He took the wine from my hand and led me to the kitchen. It was modern, all marble and steel, but there was a pot on the stove that smelled like garlic and herbs.

"You cook too?"

"My mother taught me. Before she died."

The air grew heavy. I didn't ask how she died. I had a feeling the answer would be painful.

"I didn't bring you here to talk about my mother," he said, pouring the wine. "I brought you here to talk about us."

"Us?"

"There is no 'us' yet." He handed me a glass. "But I want there to be. I want to try."

My heart stumbled. "Try what?"

"Try not to push you away. Try not to be... the way I was with Elena."

I took a sip of wine to buy myself time. "What was different with Elena?"

He leaned against the counter, staring into his glass. "Everything. I met her when I was young. Twenty-two. Fresh out of my father's shadow. She was beautiful, smart, and she made me feel like I could be more than just an Alpha."

"She betrayed you."

"So they say."

I frowned. "You don't believe it?"

He was quiet for a long moment. "I believed it then. I had proof. Documents, witnesses, everything. But lately..." He looked at me. "Lately, I've been wondering if the proof was planted."

"You think Viktor framed her."

"I think Viktor is a snake who has been trying to destroy my pack for years. And I think Lydia Ashford is his ally." His jaw tightened. "Your cousin is not a good person, Clara."

"I know."

"Then why did you let her touch you at the gala?"

"I didn't let her. She just... did."

"If she tries again, you walk away. You call me. You do whatever it takes to get away from her." He set down his glass and stepped closer. "I can't lose someone else. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"Say it."

"I understand."

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my cheek.

"I want to court you," he said. "Properly. The way wolves used to do. No games. No secrets."

"Court me?"

"I want to know you, Clara. Not just your body. Not just your scent. You. Your favorite color, your worst fear, the dream you gave up on." His thumb brushed my lower lip. "I want all of it."

My throat tightened. "My favorite color is blue. The color of the sky after a storm."

He smiled—a real smile, small but genuine. "Blue. I'll remember that."

"And my worst fear is being rejected again."

His smile faded. "That will never happen."

"You can't promise that."

"I just did."

He kissed me then. Softly. Tenderly. Nothing like the desperate, hungry kisses before. This one was slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing the shape of my mouth.

When he pulled back, his eyes were brown again. No gold.

"Stay for dinner," he said. "And tell me your dream."

So I did.

I told him about the art studio I wanted to open when I was a girl. The paintings I used to make before Derek told me Omegas didn't get to be artists. The box of brushes I still kept under my bed, even though I hadn't touched them in years.

He listened. He didn't interrupt. He didn't judge.

And when I finished, he said, "I'm going to buy you that studio. Someday."

"Alistair—"

"I'm a billionaire, Clara. Let me spend my money on something that matters."

I laughed. Actually laughed. It felt strange—I hadn't laughed in years.

And for one perfect moment, I forgot that he was a killer, that my cousin wanted me dead, that Derek was still lurking in the shadows.

I just sat in his kitchen, eating pasta he had made with his own hands, and felt something I hadn't felt in a very long time.

Safe.

---

I left the penthouse at midnight. He walked me to the elevator, and just before the doors closed, he said, "Monday. The board meeting. Derek Ashford will be there."

"I know."

"Stay close to me."

"I will."

The doors closed.

I rode down to the lobby, stepped outside, and let the cool night air wash over me.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

"Enjoying your evening, cousin? Don't get too comfortable. I know what he did to Elena. And I know what you are."

Lydia.

I deleted the message and walked home.

But her words followed me all the way.

I know what you are.

What did that mean? What did she know?

I didn't sleep well that night.